That One Night
by elzebrook
Summary: ...that one godawful, brilliant night when she'd come to him crying by the light of the moon, asking would he hold her now, and what kind of man could say no to this wild eyed girl? Prequel to The Scarlet Swan series. Post AWE JE, M for sex and langauge.
1. Godawful

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Captain Jack Sparrow or Elizabeth Swann (Disney does). I only play with them from time to time.

**A/N: **This is a prequel to my other Scarlet Swan stories, so I suppose you can read it by itself, but go read A Debt to be Repaid and The King's Seat anyway. I warn you now, this is totally unbeta'd, and will remain so. Because...it just needs to be unbeta'd. This was orginally supposed to be a rather short oneshot, but it got a little out of control. Once Mary and Anne showed up I abandoned all pretense of having control and just let the characters take over. I was pissed they weren't in AWE anyway. I like them. The world could use more bisexual polyamorous pirates anyway. Not that they're overtly bisexual and polyamorous in this fic, but still. I'm bloody sick of queer history being totally ignored. Stupid Disney.Umm...history lesson: Yes, that is laudanum Jack drugs her with. Humans have been utilising opium derivatives since at least 34000 B.C.E., and possibly since the Neanderthals walked the earth. Although it gained greatest popularity in the 19th century, it has been called laudanum since Paracelsus named it that back in about 1527. Since this fic takes place sometime in the early 1700s, I think we're safe calling it that.

And needless to say, the battle and so forth went quite differently in this universe. The only similarity is Will's Captain of the FD.

* * *

Chapter One: Godawful

There was a scream, followed by the crash and clatter of most of a silver tea service hitting a wall.

Jack sighed. And yesterday she seemed to be doing so well. He poured a few drops black sticky liquid into the cup he held and stirred, watching it curl and dissolve in the heat of the tea. He hated having to drug her, but it as the only way to make her sleep. And if she didn't sleep, she's go Mad. Er.

He sighed again, and made his way to her quarters. It'd been nearly two weeks since the battle, nearly two weeks since that idiot whelp had torn her heart out, pretending it was his. The first day all she'd done was scream, and occasionally try to throw herself into the sea until they'd tied her up for her own safety. After that, she'd just sat staring at nothing, never eating, never sleeping, as though her soul had fled and her body had yet to stop breathing. And then Jack had found that knife of Will's, and on some mad whim he'd given it to her. She'd stared at it for a long while, and then she'd spoken for the first time in a long time. True, all she'd said was "Leave me," but they were words, and they were coherent, and he'd seen the first flicker of sentience in her eyes since the fighting had started.

It was a start. Or so he'd thought. Lately he'd been wondering if someone had hit her hard on the head during the battle and no one had noticed.

He reached her door. There was another crash, and her voice inside screaming "I don't need your pity!!"

A small Chinese man slipped out the door and looked at Jack, his face carefully blank.

"Her Majesty will see you now."

Jack took a breath and opened the door. A knife whizzed past his face and buried itself in the woodwork beside his right ear.

"You know, Lizzie, if you keep throwing that at people, I'm going to have to take it away from you."

He set down the tea and pulled the knife from the wall. Elizabeth looked up at him, her hair disheveled, her eyes wide with alarm.

"You wouldn't actually, would you?" she asked, as though he'd threatened to take away her favorite dolly.

"No," he said. "I wouldn't." He handed her the knife and the teacup. "Drink your tea."

She took it from him unquestioningly and raised it to her lips. It's funny, he reflected, how she seemed to trust him implicitly now. She only accepted food or drink from him, despite the fact it always made her sleep. Perhaps she was glad of the brief respite, or simply for his company.

She put the cup down and closed her delicate fingers around the knife, holding it tight as if for comfort.

"You really should stop throwing that at people, though," Jack said. "They might get tired of it and mutiny, and there where would you be?"

Elizabeth laughed softly, an unpleasant sound.

"They won't mutiny, Jack. They're too scared of me to entertain thoughts of rebellion yet. Or perhaps they simply think me mad and do not wish to upset me further, because upsetting a madwoman can be a very dangerous thing."

Her honey eyes glittered feverishly as she spoke, and a small, worrisome smile played about her lips.

"Anyway," she continued, "you'll take care of me. Won't you?"

Jack looked at his King, this wild-eyed, grief-mad, lost woman and nodded.

"Aye," he said. "That I will."

Her eyes focused on him properly for the first time since he walked in, and the smile softened to something more genuine and more heart-breaking.

"Sleep now," Jack added.

She relaxed, leaned back against the pillows, already drowsy with the drug.

"Do you think I'm mad?" she inquired after a moment, her eyes closed. Jack watched her, dark sadness in his Trickster's eyes.

"No, Lizzie," he said, gently. "I don't."

Her eyes snapped open, a glimpse of terrifying sanity visible for a moment through the haze of opiate and anguish.

"I do," she said, before Morpheus tightened his embrace and her frightening, frightened eyes closed for the night.

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Mary Read watched the man at the railing, silhouetted against the setting sun, and wondered if she'd ever seen him more dejected. She wandered up and handed him a bottle of rum.

"I suppose you've come to tell me you're leaving?" he said, taking it without looking up.

"No. We're here for as long as you need us. We were just—"

"Wondering how long that might be," said a new voice. Jack turned away from the sunset and passed a hand over his face.

"I've no idea," he began, but she cut him off.

"Jack, how long are you going to do this? You have a life, you know."

"Anne—"

"She's mad, Jack," said the Red Queen, flatly.

"Goddammit, Anne, don't you think I know that?" Jack glared at his oldest friend, who glared back just as furiously. After a moment, Anne through up her hands.

"Fine. Cling to your hopes. They'll prove false, you know."

Jack rolled his eyes and turned back to the sunset. He didn't have the energy for this right now.

"Anne, imagine if that was you in there," said Mary. "Imagine if it was me dead, or Calico."

"I'd heal," said Anne, stubbornly.

"Yes, but what if it was _your fault_?"

Both Jack and Anne stared at her.

"What?" said Anne.

"It's not her fault!" said Jack, indignantly. Mary shrugged.

"It's how she feels. She's thinking that maybe if she didn't something different, maybe if she's acted different, been a better wife, a better daughter, a better person, he wouldn't've left. She's blamin' herself for what he did, thinkin' she did something wrong that drove him away."

"But—"

It's not rational, Jack, I know. She probably does too, in her head. But not in her heart. Hearts aren't logical Jack, they don't listen to reason. The most we can do is wait. And hope."

"Is there any hope?"

Mary sighed.

"I don't know. I was half-mad when my Johnathan died, but never like this…There's always a chance though."

"So what're you gonna do Jack?" asked Anne. "Just stay here and care for a mad girl with a broken crown on her head and blood on her hands?"

Jack nodded.

"For as long as I have to," he said, staring out at the horizon.

"You really love her, don't you?" asked Mary softly, so softly Jack could pretend he didn't hear.

Jack lifted the bottle to his lips and pretended he didn't hear.


	2. Brilliant

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Captain Jack Sparrow or Elizabeth Swann (Disney does). I only play with them from time to time.

**A/N: **In my defense, I have been very busy and then very gone since I last updated, and this chapter was _ridiculously_ hard to write. But anyway, here it is. It's...um...a lot shorter than I expected. And I really have no idea what they used to light candles, so if anyone does, please, tell me.

But it's still here and the rant about laudanum from my last A/N still stands.

* * *

Chapter Two: Brilliant

Jack turned over again. He'd been lying in bed for nigh on three hours now, but sleep remained elusive as Poseidon's horses. Elizabeth's pale face kept appearing before him, her eyes vivid gold and wild. Shadows pressed in on him from the corners.

"Fuck it," he muttered, swinging his legs out of bed. He fumbled on his desk for a candle and striker. Various objects clattered to the floor. Cursing, he finally located the striker and lit a candle. He bent to pick up the scattered items.

Maps, quills, sextant—how the hell did that get there?—compass, damn thing still not working, or rather, working too well, since the only thing he wanted was to be far, far away from here, empty rum bottle, laudanum…he held the small bottle up for a moment, and then sighed and dumped his armload onto the desk. He surveyed the resulting chaos. The desk was a mess. His whole cabin was a mess. Hell, his whole life was a mess. Dying did not seem to be conducive to a well-organized existence.

Ah, well. He'd deal with it in the morning. As for now…his chief worry was safe for the night, captive in the arms of Morpheus, so he might as well quiet the rest of them. He got up and found the rum, wrenching out the cork and taking a long, hard swallow. He sat back down and stared vaguely at the bottle. The golden color reminded him of Elizabeth. Everything reminded him of Elizabeth. Hell, even the bloody sextant reminded him of Elizabeth. He lifted the rum to take another pull, but the little black bottle caught his eye.

If that stuff could quiet here, imagine what it would do for his unquiet mind…Just one drop…Surely it couldn't—

No. He shook his head to dislodge the tempting little voice. He'd been down that road before. Best stick to rum. He knew where he stood, with rum. On the sweetly rolling deck of his ship with Elizabeth's golden hair streaming in the wind…It must be nice to be that wind, to tangle and tease in her hair like lover's fingers, like his fingers wanted to…He wondered for a moment how his fingers would look against the gold of her hair, the ivory of her skin…He found himself staring vaguely at his hands. He needed to get some sleep. He lifted the rum again, and for a moment, the laudanum bottle seemed to be laughing at him. He picked it up and chucked it in a drawer, slamming it shut. Then he blew out his candle and lay down, cradling his bottle like Elizabeth cradled that knife, like the only sure and solid thing in this mad, mad world.

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Jack ran through the belly of a ship. It was dark and dank and eerily quiet. His footsteps resounded around him, intermingled with the soft patter of rain on the edge of hearing. Every once in a while he caught a glimpse of white, a flutter of cloth, a flash of gold turning a corner, and he knew it was Elizabeth, and he knew she had the knife, but only God knew what she would do with it and Jack didn't want to find out. And so he ran on until he turned a corner and there she was, spattered in blood that wasn't hers, her face pale, but she was smiling at him, smiling when he reached out a hand towards her, not screaming not to touch her, smiling as she brought the knife up to his heart and rammed it in, smiling as he fell…

Jack's eyes snapped open. At first he didn't wonder what woke him from that hellish dream, he was only grateful. And then he caught a glimpse of white and a flash of gold from just beyond his doorway and he knew it was Elizabeth, and this time he knew he wasn't dreaming.

"Lizzie?" he asked. She didn't move. He lit a candle. "What's wrong, love?"

"The walls were breathing," she whispered, still in the shadows. "They tell you you're mad when you hear voices, but they never tell you the voices are your own…"

Jack stood up. He knew all too well about those voices, those echoes of the worst parts of oneself.

"You're not mad," he said, fiercely. Elizabeth emitted a sound somewhere between a laugh and a sob and stepped into the light. Tears streaked glistening pathways down her cheeks.

"Aren't I, though? They say you are, you know. You must be because only another lunatic could understand me. You're the only one who understands me, now, Jack."

_Peas in a pod, love. _He hated himself for saying those words, now, if only for how true they were.

" Elizabeth…" He wanted so badly to comfort her, to reach out to her, but inside his head all he could hear was the soft patter of rain.

"You are," she said, her voice choked, torn. "You're the only one who can touch me now."

Her hand reached out towards him.

"Why?" he whispered.

"Because everyone I touch dies. Everyone. But you—you came back…You're the only other one who can hear the rain…"

Her hand was mere inches away from his skin now, and he could feel heat radiating from her fingertips.

"Jack…It's so dark here, and I'm so alone and I'm so—I'm so—scared." She was crying in earnest now, crying like she hadn't done, like she should've done and her hand closed the gap between them, the gap she worked so hard to build.

"Please," she whispered. "Just hold me." And what could he do but pull her close and hold her until the sobs stopped wracking her body and her mouth found his. And when he pulled away with a question on his lips and a terrible hope in his heart, what could she do but look at him with her wide, wild, golden eyes and pray to an uncaring God he would understand.

And he did, and he breathed his life into her body, because all she ever wanted anymore was just to feel alive. And when breathing wasn't enough, he gave her everything he had as she rose and fell above him, her sweat falling on him like hot rain. He gave her his body, because she already had his heart, and she gave him nothing but the sweet broken litany of his own name until it turned to wordless cries and he reared up to meet her as she crashed down like waves upon him. And then it was over and she collapsed beside him and almost smiled as he brushed the hair off her face and kissed her forehead. And he almost smiled back, as he watched her slide back into sleep, and then just watched her, because he knew she would slip away like rain drops in the desert when he closed his eyes.

In her sleep she clung to him like she clung to that knife, like he clung to his rum, and he was happy, just for a moment before exhaustion claimed him, to be her sure and solid thing, even if it was the sure and solid thing from which she would leap into the winds and the golden dawn.


	3. Night

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Captain Jack Sparrow or Elizabeth Swann (Disney does). I only play with them from time to time.

**A/N: **Hey, look, the story's done. Yes I'm perfectly aware it's morning in the fic. It's a night of the soul, not of the earth. Don't be so literal, geez...

* * *

Chapter Three: Night

Jack awoke. She was gone. He knew it before he reached out for her, before he called her name, before he took a conscious breath.

There was no sign of her coming at all, no whisper, no scent, no golden hairs upon his pillow. He would've doubted she had been there at all, if it were not for the indefinable, ineffable way he could still feel her on his skin and taste her on his lips.

He stood and walked to the window. Her ship sailed away from him towards the sunrise, beautiful and bittersweet and breaking his heart. He watched until she sailed beyond the curve of the earth, and then he put his head in his hands and wept.

Outside, it began to rain.


End file.
